


Nineveh

by sburbanite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual, Dreams, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Nostalgia, Sort Of, Their relationship is whatever you want it to be: sexual, aromantic take your pick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: So far, so dreamlike,the lucid part of Crowley's brain thinks,although the symbolism is a little heavy-handed.And then he forgets that part of himself entirely, because the City is on fire, the streets are filled with people screaming and the angel is nowhere to be found.This isn't right, his brain objects,I wasn't here for this bit, I only read about it years afterwards.The surface part of his consciousness pays it no attention because everything is burning andAziraphale is goneand burning paper is fluttering to the ground around him and his heart is hammering so loudly in his chest he thinks it might burst.





	Nineveh

Even after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, (or rather, _especially_ after), Crowley sleeps a lot. It's good old-fashioned slothfulness, he tells himself; a way to underline his demonic nature now that he's reluctantly, blissfully softening under the weight of Aziraphale's quiet affection. The angel's sofa is a wonderful place to stretch out and doze in the soft, dusty sunlight and not think about the future _at all_.

It's changing, this thing between him and Aziraphale. All for the better, of course, but it's still difficult to adjust to all at once. The angel brings him coffee now, when he's sitting messing about on his cellphone and generally being annoying when Aziraphale is trying to work. He smiles when he does it, too. Before, Aziraphale would have hinted gently that it was time for Crowley to go away and bother someone else, clearing his throat pointedly as he click-clacked away on his ancient computer. Now, there is coffee. Coffee and an implicit invitation to stay as long as he wants, and Crowley has no idea what to do with _that_.

So he naps. He dozes and snoozes and occasionally sleeps for a few days straight, waking up with a stiff neck and a blanket over him that he definitely didn't have when he fell asleep. Sometimes he thinks he feels a hand stroking his hair, or the barely-there brush of lips against his forehead. There are dreams, too. Crowley doesn't usually dream, not more than vague impressions, at least. 

These dreams are different. _This_ dream is different. He is in a city, mudbrick walls towering on all sides. Not just _a_ city, he realizes, but _the_ city. He's lost, even though the place is as familiar as his own body, because it's the first time he's ever been here. He doesn't care. Crowley is utterly happy. He looks around at the city the humans have built, at the walls they have raised against the darkness and death waiting in the desert outside, at the _cleverness_ of their architecture. This place will outlast every single one of them, a cry of defiance in the face of a creator who damned them to such painfully short lives. Crowley is so, so proud of them. 

At the end of an alleyway he spots a flash of white fabric, of ash blonde hair, and hurries toward it. The angel disappears into a market, lost amidst the cool gloom and the scent of spices. Crowley follows him, catching glimpses here and there, through streets and squares and courtyards. The City changes around him, falling into rubble and rising again, but Crowley pays it no attention. His eyes are fixed on the angel's back as he bustles away, always looking anywhere but in Crowley's direction.

 _So far, so dreamlike_ , the lucid part of Crowley's brain thinks, _although the symbolism is a little heavy-handed_.

And then he forgets that part of himself entirely, because the City is on fire, the streets are filled with people screaming and the angel is nowhere to be found. _This isn't right_ , his brain objects, _I wasn't here for this bit, I only read about it years afterwards._ The surface part of his consciousness pays it no attention because everything is burning and _Aziraphale is gone_ and burning paper is fluttering to the ground around him and his heart is hammering so loudly in his chest he thinks it might burst.

He wakes up gasping for breath he doesn't need, with Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, dear? Sorry to wake you, I probably shouldn't have, but I thought you might be having a nightmare."

"Ngh," Crowley says, blinking slowly.

His stupid subconscious has been getting ideas, lately. Ideas about which memories he should relive instead of locking them away forever somewhere dark and forgotten in the back of his brain.

Aziraphale is frowning at him, little lines of worry creasing his brow, and Crowley _hates_ it. 

"M'fine, angel," he says, pushing himself up into a sitting position, his back against the arm of the sofa and his long legs spread out on it. "Got a lot of memories at this point, that's all. Not all of them good ones. Apparently that leads to some bad dreams."

"Oh, well. That sounds unpleasant, if you ask me." 

Aziraphale bites his lip and shifts position, moving from kneeling next to the sofa to sitting on the floor, shoulder level with Crowley's hip. 

"I can't see what all the fuss is about with this sleeping lark. I know you enjoy it, dear boy, but you seem to frown a lot when you do it. It can't be making you all that happy, can it?"

Crowley sighs, avoiding looking at the angel gazing up at him from the dusty bookshop floor, sitting so close he could just reach out and touch him.

"It's relaxing," he says, "or it used to be, anyway. Means I don't have to think about things. And sometimes dreams are nice." He looks at Aziraphale then. The angel is studying him as if he were a Wilde First Edition. 

"Angel, d'you remember Nineveh?" He asks.

Aziraphale nods.

"Of course I do. It was there for quite some time, dear. You could get wonderful little sticky things on sticks in the market, some sort of honey and nut confection if I recall."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Of course Aziraphale remembered the _food_.

"Well, we're probably the only ones left who _do_ remember it. My lot and your lot were too busy with their own bullshit to pay attention to what the humans were doing."

"My _old_ lot and your _old_ lot," Aziraphale corrects, testily.

"Yeah, that." Crowley swallows. They were on their own side. Sometimes it was still too much to bear that Aziraphale had accepted that, accepted _him_ after all this time. 

"Them. Anyway, I was there. In the dream, I mean. Not just remembering it but actually _there_. Dust and sunshine and sticky little sticks and everything. Dreams can make you forget it's all gone, at least for a bit."

Something softened in Aziraphale's expression, the little dip in the corners of his mouth and raise of his eyebrows letting Crowley know he was about to be assaulted with claims that he was _sweet_ or _kind_ or something equally horrible. 

"I mean, it was there for thousands of years," Crowley says, before Aziraphale could level undeserved compliments him, "Thousands of years of people living and cheating and loving and killing each other, all just gone. Nobody remembers them except a bookseller with terrible fashion sense and an unemployed demon. S'just...nice to go back, even if it's not real."

"It was a _wonderful_ place," Aziraphale says, raising a hand to pat Crowley gently on the thigh, "So much hope. They built a home for themselves amongst all that hardship, even after being cast out. Quite inspirational, don't you think?"

"Mnmm. Didn't last, though, did it?"

Crowley looks away. Aziraphale pats him again, this time leaving his hand on his leg and squeezing gently.

"I wouldn't say that. It was the cradle of civilization, after all. And now look at them; spreading out, learning so much, building cities all over the globe. You can't stay in the cradle forever, Crowley, dear."

"I suppose not," Crowley gazes around at the stacks of books, at the dust motes dancing in the light from the windows. "It's just hard when eventually it all goes up in flames."

He hears Aziraphale's intake of breath, feels the angel's hand tense on his leg, touching him where he's pretty sure Aziraphale has never touched him before.

"Oh, _Crowley_. I am so sorry for what you went through."

Crowley can't look at him.

"Shut up, angel. I wasn't even there. I didn't even hear about Nineveh until it'd been gone for a year. News didn't exactly travel fast back then, even bad news."

"Look at me, Crowley," Aziraphale says, using his stern voice. He does so. It's hard to disobey an angel when he speaks to you as if you've just put an empty milk carton back in the fridge.

"We both know what this is about, dear, and it isn't ancient Mesopotamian cities. I... I'm very sorry for abandoning you."

"Er," Crowley swallows. "Okay? It wasn't your fault, angel."

"No, but I feel the need to apologize nonetheless. And. And to let you know that it won't happen again, not ever. I promise it, Crowley."

Aziraphale is shaking, he realizes. He can feel it in Aziraphale's hand, in the place where his shoulder is leaning against the sofa. 

Hesitantly, Crowley covers Aziraphale's hand with his own. _Such a small gesture_ , he thinks, _so why is it so difficult_? Aziraphale sighs like he's been holding his breath for centuries.

"Nothing's forever, angel. We both know that better than anyone. You can't know what you'll want... what'll happen in the future."

Aziraphale moves, standing up and shimmying Crowley aside so he can perch on the edge of the sofa where Crowley can't avoid looking at him. They are facing one another now, with Crowley's legs trapped between the angel and the cushions. He is held in position in case he tries to do something stupid, like run away from this conversation.

"My dear, I have known what I wanted for thousands of years. What makes you think I'll change my mind now?"

Crowley squirms, shifting in his seat. Aziraphale stills him with one hand on his leg and the touch of his fingers to Crowley's palm. Gingerly, as if either one of them might break, he laces their fingers together.

"S'not now I'm worried about," Crowley says, keeping his voice level through sheer force of will, "it's later. Y'know. When it all goes tits up."

Aziraphale laughs, eyes sparkling.

"You daft old sod," he says, affectionately, "Whatever gave you the idea it was going to go, as you put it, 'tits up'?"

"Everything does, eventually! It's...it's…"

"Ineffable?" Aziraphale supplies, smirking.

" _Inevitable_. It just does, alright?"

"What a load of rubbish, honestly. Have you looked around, lately? The humans have done so much better than we ever dreamed they would. Think of all the wonderful things they've done."

"Oh yeah," Crowley says, rolling his eyes, "all the war and food shortages and climate change are really signs of things going _well_."

"Oh hush. They're trying their best. And my point is, dearest, that they have faced so many challenges and survived all of them." 

Aziraphale rubs his thumb across Crowley's knuckles, softly massaging away the tension in his hand.

"Six thousand years and still going strong. And in another six thousand, whether they are living in the stars or building new Ninevehs out of mud in the desert, you and I will be there to watch over them. To remember them. _Together_ , if you'll have me."

Aziraphale squeezes his hand, then, and Crowley's heart is so full it _hurts_.

"'Course." He manages, squeezing back. Aziraphale smiles, teary-eyed and soft.

"I'm glad. I can't imagine a future without you in it, dear."

"Me neither," Crowley croaks, "Without you, I mean. It'd be a bloody awful future, anyway."

They sit like that for a while, hands clasped and smiling, until Crowley speaks. 

"My money's on the stars. I reckon they'll make it, they've never paid attention to practicality. Stick them on a ball in space with all the air and water they need and they can't wait to go and live in a metal tube, or on a planet that hates their guts. Bunch of bloody-minded idiots, if you ask me."

"I do hope so, I don't think I can stand it if we have to go back to waiting for central heating to be reinvented." 

Crowley laughs, remembering how miserable they'd both been during the dampness of the Dark Ages.

"I think that's why I love them so much," Aziraphale says, looking Crowley squarely in the eyes. "They never give up, they never let anyone tell them they can't do something. They fight even when it seems like everything is lost. So very brave. They never cease to amaze me."

"They're OK, I guess," Crowley replies, grinning. He's not sure he's ever felt so happy or so achingly open. Even with a layer of metaphor between himself and Aziraphale's words, it's almost too much. 

"Now, as a very wonderful person once said to me, can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?"

"Oh, angel," Crowley says, "Temptation accomplished."

And if Aziraphale holds Crowley's hand all afternoon; on the walk to the café, while he eats his eggs Benedict and then a piece of devil's food cake and then home again, Crowley doesn't comment. If Crowley stops sleeping as much and starts bringing Aziraphale a suspicious volume of plants as gifts, Aziraphale only smiles.

One day, far in the future, they sit together in their Cottage and plan a trip to Alpha Centauri, for real this time.


End file.
